Of Dragons and Jellies
by Rational Drunk
Summary: "One of research. Ashe and I are seeking information on the Winter Sapphire from the Rakelstake archives – these books over here. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated," said Garen . He paused, staring at his half as though in consideration, before innocently adding another tome onto his sister's stack. (GarenxPantheon, adventure throughout Valoran, some humour, lotsa crack)
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

(a.k.a the chapter no one bothers to read, so here's a summary. Garen and Panth fell into a crevasse when Lissandra interrupted their fight. They talk a bit. The end. This story will focus on Garen, the intrigues of court and diplomacy, the mystery and pursuit of the Gems of Transcendence, and the ragtag band of unlikely companions who shall travel throughout both chartered and unchartered Valoran. Together, they may just save the world. Maybe.)

**INDEX:**_  
_

_**Prologue: Prologue**_

_**Chapter 1: Of The Time Garen Said No**_

_**Chapter 2: Of The Time Garen Was A Tightrope Walker**_

_**Chapter 3: Of The Time Jarvan Was Disgusting**_

_**Chapter 4: Of The Time Garen Disagreed With Wookiees**_

* * *

Garen could not help but find foreign discomfort to the dry air that now filled his lungs. Wincing, he attempted to gauge the height of his fall, his gut twisting as he noted the sheer walls of silky black ice extending two dragon-lengths towards its jagged lips; through which a gasp of frozen wind buffeted his face. He coughed.

And the dark form which lay before him shifted in reply.

"_Garen_."

Garen attempted to rise, but his hardened limbs were weary still of the Witch's ice; so much that his soul still heard songs of it. To his horror, the shadowed figure before him appeared to suffer from no such malediction, the Rakkoran helm glinting as it rose into the icy light.

The Demacian struggled furiously, his mind's roar so deafening it would have buried both men in ice had it evolved to one more vocal, so desperate to melt the stupor congealing the joints beneath his armour - but to no avail, for he found no flint but useless steel, clasped uselessly in his twitching right hand.

A crash of bronze, upon ice; and Garen's eyes widened absent pain as the Rakkoran was once again enshrouded by darkness.

"Well done to you, false champion, it is a fine predicament that your petulance brings us to," Pantheon grumbled in insulting manner, his deep voice echoing from the darkness, his disgust and displeasure radiating through the bitter air.

_So the winter too, has settled within his bones_, mused the Demacian knight, a silent breath of relief escaping his lips; which then curled slightly, puppets stringed to the most bizarre of amusement. Barbarians.

"It has never been I to land the first blow, Rakkoran, not at this time or before it." Garen chuckled wearily, "not when you tremble behind your shield, suckling upon it as infant brat to mother's breast."

"Spare me that tongue, from which a dog has gone muted," said the Rakkoran coolly, bronze against ice hatching wicked sound. "I care not for the sound of your bark, Demacian dog, and if given when unwanted I shall silence you with the screams of your own undoing."

"Our exchanging of pleasantries grows tiresome, mountain brute, and with no eagerness to release us from this blight on earth. Hush, and let our fires return," Garen uttered softly, his words both provocatively direct as well as they were spoken in respectful volume, courtesy of his Crownguard upbringing, which he had been taught to extend to even the deafest of ears.

Pantheon scoffed, his disbelief and disgust radiating in rigid air. "Fire? You? The dog knows tricks, for it jests. What do hounds of your breed know of fire beyond harsh command and pitched hoop? A half-heart scratch behind your ear? Or dangled reward of meaty treat, salted by the piss of your Prince?"

Garen stilled, his ire risen less from fantastically subtle accusation of his lips to his lord's flesh, but more from impertinent dismissal of his honour by one who had none.

He begins, "it is my honour- "

"Honour, again? It is wordless marvel that you do not fall ill of gut, when your cloying talk brings me to brink of spewing what little sustenance to be found in this accursed land," spat the Rakkoran warrior. "Learn this, Demacian dog; your honour means to me no more than the high fantasies of a prepubescent boy, a delusion steeped in vile poison of mother's milk, suckled greedily by the rest of your obnoxious kin."

The Demacian's eyes narrowed, seen but unseen, at insult of brother upon sister. The Rakkoran continued relentless, his impassioned voice resounding throughout the crevasse.

"Only blood, and glory, exist upon the field of battle, and the sun shines upon all constant, for it bats not an eye to what variety of contrivance which may twist your mind. And shine the sun will, though only the true warrior shall be blessed by its watchful glare, for the weaklings have earned its spite and are crushed beneath the shadowed soles of his sandaled feet; and whatever be their fantastic notions of honour or valour or whatnot swift too shall be their oblivion as the crows feast upon their sunless eyes."

Garen raised an eyebrow. "So typical of a Rakkoran brute, to speak with such admirable passion of that which he know not."

"Of course, the Demacian dog is well-schooled in the vestibules of chivalry and reason! The sun applauds! And yet reason remains a sound stranger to my ears, when denial insists all too familiar," pressed the prodigy of Targon; and Garen sensed – veiled masterfully behind low-uttered words of sarcasm and acidic insult – a stifled curiosity.

Garen sighed. "Reason? The Prince's commands are not mine to question, but a testament of my honour, of my-"

"Honour, again? Surely even leashed dogs must tire of such abstractions?"

"It is my duty as a knight of the Da-"

"Duty, of course. Not a knight, but perhaps a seamstress then, with a pattern so consistent. Your words with method twist upon the pendulum of my throa-"

"_Still tongue_," rebuffed the Might of Demacia, his words deepening to a growl. The darkened form before him froze, by surprise or anger he could not tell, but he did not care. "You ask me of reason, of cause, and I would respond- and yet you fuss and hiss and whine as would an incontinent child before my words could find sound. If I were to oblige, what other mouth speaks but my fucking own? What would you have me do, to tear tongue from speaker and shove it down your fucking throat?"

The dark mound before him shifted in its seat, and impure silence fell once more.

"You have words to speak, then speak them."

Garen raised his head in surprise, staring at the dark form, too monstrous to be of mortal man. Was that... apology?

_Nay, barbarians know of no such civility, nor are they capable of remorse. That is what Jarvan has always told him, of "the mountain brutes that battled for naught more than battle's sake"… and Jarvan is always right…_

_…But the Rakkoran, soft of tongue and sharp of wit, every word so quickly cutting and clever and with immaculate lack of effort that cast his seasoned blood into pit of flame… was definitely no common mountain brute._

"To what end?" Garen asked slowly, his eyes narrowing in attempt to discern his cellmate's design, obscured in darkness; which only furthered his unease under the crystal light. "To what end, save wasted breath upon deafened ears?"

"To none, perhaps. I've heard things, Demacian. Stories, rumours,and the odd mutterings of senile old men… I cannot understand people who would suffer so much injustice for abstractions' sake." Pantheon rolled his spear in his palm, as though deep in thought. "At the cost of all that most men find important. I know men, and I know their hearts – for one's spear may only seek so many before the blood educates. If Thresh had made better study of what truly shackled humanity, he would find that it was desire; dirty, filthy desire for any sum of immediate or long-term satisfactions, and not that accursed lantern of his."

The darkness stilled as Garen felt the Rakkoran's eyes upon his own. "One who appears able to subvert humanity's driving impetus should therefore be of much novelty."

"Such philosophy is foreign sound from a mountain brute," Garen said in graceful mockery, to a snort.

"Think on it and see, Demacian dog," shot back the Rakkoran with barbed ire.

"Would that not mean that I, a dog as you so take pleasure to name, am freer than you?" Garen countered, once again secretly impressed by the Rakkoran's sophistication. "If I am not shackled, or leashed, as you say?"

"Freedom is in the freedom to pursue desire," Pantheon said simply, a strange emotion to his voice. "You are the most hobbled of us all."


	2. Of The Time Garen Said No

**Chapter 1: Of The Time Garen Said No**

* * *

How much time had passed, Garen knew not, for the days of the northern summers were as eternal as a woman was stubborn (a very sexist Demacian remark with which Garen would not get away with in the UK today); his limbs had found sense quicker than they normally would, the crevasse's depths surprisingly warm (but still cold enough to set his teeth achatter), blushing away the ice and what cobwebs remained of the Witch's curse.

The trail of uneven light his guide, he stumbled back to the center of the crevasse, glancing fleetingly at where the shadowed statue of a Rakkoran continued to strike him with disquiet. He held no illusions as to the superior constitution of the man, and he cared not for the puzzle of his reluctance to motion when the faculty was made available, undoubtedly long before Garen himself found his feet.

"I could find no exit to the east," he said blankly, to the silhouette or to himself he knew not, for he would sooner receive nod of head of his words finding home from a leg of ham than from the Rakkoran.

"Nor I the west."

Garen stifled a curse; an attempt lost in futility, his clamorous armour betraying his surprise.

"But I did not see you rise."

"No, you did not."

"And yet you assure me futile foresight of westward search?"

"Yes."

His tongue robbed of pertinent speech, Garen froze, unsure if the Rakkoran thought himself a jester or…

"You would take me for a fool?" Garen said in displeasure even as the thought took to tongue, leaving foul taste.

He could almost feel the Rakkoran's eyes roll skyward as he directed the shadow of his spear to the west, and said sarcastically, "I _would_ have you take twelve steps yonder."

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Garen obliged, skirting past the Rakkoran's seat upon the frozen ground. No light fell upon the western passage, and in the darkness Garen took to his steps caution even as he took them to count.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven-Saint. Eight. Ni-_

_Crash._

"Is exit not found?" came the Rakkoran's smug voice, tinged with ever-so-faint amusement. "Alas, I would have counselled deliberation to eight step for fear of certain… hindrance to passage, but what is a lowly mountain brute to counsel so learned a Demacian gentleman?"

Garen stumbled back into the lit clearing, massaging his forehead whereupon the spring of blue and black were taking bloom. A growl.

"Counsel absent or no, you said twelve steps."

"Indeed, and the sun applauds your attention."

Garen settled into his old seat, his armour a cacophony of steel against ice. He glared into the darkness where the Rakkoran's eyes presumably lay. "Are all Rakkorans so sarcastic?"

"Are all Demacians fools?" There was a metallic click as Pantheon rested something upon the ice; _his spear, perhaps_. "And just when I thought the hound quit of idiot questions…"

"Ha, no, not all fools; and not all hounds. You may outmatch me in verbal arena, but pray you never find acquaintance with my sister," Garen chuckled pleasantly, unnoticing as the silhouette froze for a sands' passing. "She'll twist that infuriating tongue of yours into a hundred different flower-patterned knots."

Pantheon leaned backwards, his shadowed form melting gracefully against the ice-black wall. He yawned. "I surmise the arena of wits and tongues to not be the only array in which the Lady of Luminosity so clearly stands triumphant victor."

Garen's brown eyes narrowed, soft even in suspicion. "Enlighten me, for I care not for the puzzle of your words"

"Alas, both speaker's eyes and arms grow weary, and the calves distraught; for all has to be painted as clear as day to lead to your realisation." The silhouette shrugged in mock exasperation, before continuing, "_I_, am saying that you fight like a woman."

The shadows upon Garen's face shifted as his jaw twitched. "Ha ha ha."

"Ho ho ho."

"If memory proves faithful servant, I recall certain Rakkoran being pushed to edge of shelter beneath Excalibur's rain, a bondage from which he was _only_ absolved by serendipity when Ice Bitch invited self with presence undesired."

A snort issued from the darkness. "Your memory proves you cuckold, for your pretty face is unassuming even in the most absurd of distortions. Your sword, as large of make as it is comical, and which I surmise serves yet insufficient compensation for some distressing… _lack_; is crude in strike and weak in blow, bending ineffectual beneath Aegis as does master's distress, and crushed grape was certain fate of yours had the Bitch's meddling not saved your spinning arse."

"Ah, for certainty," said the Demacian, crossing his arms before his chest as his eyes widened in mock enlightenment. "Though I fear the Artisan of War forgets minor detail of spear expelled from grasp, courtesy of my 'spinning' – _which_, incidentally, has me widely esteemed as the Whirlwind of Demacia."

"Your fears are lost, for they have no home to go," said Pantheon, every word dripping with excruciating irony. "The Artisan of War recalls said detail with stark lucidity, and also that Iron Spear left willing grasp in admission of master's sentiments; sentiments which were satisfied with the capture of the Winter Sapphire and its simultaneous denial from your spinning arse – _which_, incidentally, has you widely ridiculed as the Twirling Twerp of Demacia."

Garen rolled his eyes, though not from lack of amusement. "Sentiments which _were_ satisfied, for now both are denied the Sapphire and are grounded at the bottom of this accursed crevasse with no means of departure; save perhaps having fucking wings sprout from our backs."

Call of water upon stone returned, with steady rhythm; as Pantheon fell silent amidst their banter.

"Do not be so sure," he said at last.

The Demacian straightened slowly, his brow furrowed in suspicion. "What do you mean?"

"There are other methods of scaling seemingly insurmountable heights - that do not beseech the blessings of a chicken; but rather of the sun."

"Apologies, but I fear that the fall must have taken toll upon your mind, for you make as elaborate sense as striped watermelon." (A Runeterran idiom, where watermelons aren't grown because they do not exist. _How do they know about watermelons then?_ I dunno, tv? Look, we could keep asking silly questions all day, _or_ we could just move on. _Geez_.)

The events which followed were not quick in succession, but left the Demacian dazed and absent north; his eyes clamouring at the doors of a master always so phlegmatic to belief, as he struggled to register the foreign face suddenly manifest in crystal light; barely inches away from his own.

An inaudible gasp escaped his lips as his heart fell into his gut; for it had skipped a beat.

_Handsome._

* * *

_NO… NO. NO. NO. Barbarian. Treacherous thought. Enemy of… Demacia. NO. NO. NO._

_NO!_

**TBC**

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Of The Time Garen Was A Tightrope Walker

**Chapter Two: Of The Time Garen Was A Tightrope Walker**

* * *

Cloudlessness had always been typical of the Demacian summers, a stitchless blue accompanied by the spelled laughter of playing children, which filled the cobbled streets with the perennial pitter-patter of their running feet; and such was their diversion that their mirth floated giddily upwards, audible even in the fantastically ornate spires which towered over the city.

Garen growled in frustration as he closed the century-old tome that he had been perusing, perhaps with more force than was necessary. It mattered not how many readings he gave, the author was as cryptic as he was verbose, and seemed to take inscrutable pleasure in demonstrating his sophistication by devoting entire chapters expounding the ethical ramifications of common everyday objects, such as matchsticks and chairs and – ironically enough, quills. Unable to concentrate, he alighted his seat, his plated boots sinking into the lush carpet of concentric red and gold as he paced in similar pattern.

Garen's office was decadent, as was only befitting of the commander of the Dauntless Vanguard. Large paintings of past kings and commanders decorated the spaces in between antique bookshelves, and the Crownguard crest hung magnificently above the ornately carved blackwood desk. Around the circular room were also found lavish vases of perennially verdant plants, whereas an entire section of wall was devoted entirely to suits of armor and swords of exquisite make, relics of Crownguard said to be forged with great smithing magic; _though_, furrowing his brow at the gray smudge upon his finger, Garen had always known them to serve no more purpose than glorified seats for obese dust.

_Concentrate, for much is at stake._

Twice-fortnight ago, message had arrived in the form of a cloaked figure under yellow torchlight, raving mad with tales of dragons and fire and ice, before he had collapsed, twitching, his lips profuse with froth at Lord Serryn's feet. Further inspection had led to the consternated discovery of Widow's Nectar in the stranger's blood, a rare, fatal poison originating from the Plague Jungles.

Lord Serryn was old and respected, highly-regarded for his past tenure as the general of the Sixteenth Platoon, of which tales of their triumph over Noxus during the second Franesian war were the stuff of legend. Unfortunately, much like his sword, the hollow clamour of steel and years have dulled his mind with steady pattern, and nothing of note could be extracted from the kindly patriarch of House Laurent; save fragmented mention of "the Winter Sapphire", a name – as Tryndamere informs them – often heard in dramatic narrative around the ephemeral campfires of Freljord.

And that should have been the end of it, some wandering vagabond stricken by the throes of death, stumbling into the capital for aid even as delirium descended upon his mind. It would have been the most practical conclusion, despite the poison's rarity, which could no doubt have been easily attributed to more mundane devices such as coincidence. An isolated case, that warranted no extensive thought, and certainly no venture beyond Demacian walls.

But then came the hawk the day after, tapping upon his window with a clawed talon, and a scroll tied around the other with golden string.

Quinn reported of a great column of smoke rising above the Marshes of Khaladoun – and upon venturing deeper into the fens – of burning ruin of the Wizard Zalagath's tower; torn apart by what she surmised could only be powerful magic. Fire continues to lick the stones a hellish red, the swamp's light gases sustaining the unnatural flame; and the wizard, whom no Demacian has ever laid eyes upon for generations, was nowhere to be found.

Garen recalls the sensation of growing unease as his eyes travelled down the parchment, curled fantastically at the edges in the impression of the wind.

The council, sharing his sentiments, considered the happenings of the two events far too great a coincidence to ignore, especially when the echoes of the princess Lissandra's recent exposure and subsequent deposal have yet to subside. Should the frail body now lying upon a cold granite slab in the morgue belong to that of the wizard, his dying words were not to be taken lightly; and thus, Garen was sent to Freljord, to seek audience with the Frost Archer in her temporary encampment north of Rakelstake (in anticipation of a raid from some barbarian tribe), and to learn what he could of the Winter Sapphire.

The audience proved fruitful, for the Winter Sapphire was a relic central to Avarosan lore, which rests in an ice-carved temple north of the Ironspike Mountains. When pressed for the state of security and of guard, the Queen of Freljord merely laughed, shaking her head as she spoke amiably of "silly southerners" and "their silly fascination with worthless things that gleam with others' light". Regardless, Ashe was no fool, and agreed that the Sapphire should be retrieved should it prove to be of any import.

And so, several nips from Ashe's huskies later (damned dogs), he arrived at the temple, an impossibly massive structure protruding from the side from a mountain, dripping with stalactites the size of grown men. Garen remembers being breathtaken, his captivation by the temple so great that he did not notice the fading indentations in the snow that he proceeded to cover with his own.

Which was why it came as very much an unpleasant surprise when he found not only the Sapphire, floating serenely in an alcove in the wall; but also the plume of a Rakkoran helm.

_The Rakkoran._

Garen slapped a weary palm against his forehead, then slowly slid its splayed fingers through his hair, his gut twisting at the unwanted memory of his unlikely acquaintance.

* * *

_"…and so, when the sun dances o'er us and my limbs are graced with ray of fire, shadow shall feast, consuming entirety of this accursed icy cicatrix as I take leap," explained the Rakkoran, flaxen brow curved in ironic lilt of voice; even as the inner turmoil of the Demacian passed unnoticed. Ostensibly._

_Three ticks sounded before Garen found tongue, hidden behind swallow of spit. "Grand Skyfall."_

_"I see that the Demacian is familiar with my abilities." Pantheon grinned, waxing pearly crescent under the cold light._

_"Yes," said Garen; cautiously. "Though I persist in uncertainty, for the intent of your information remains hooded stranger."_

_Brown eyes widened as the Rakkoran rested weight of torso upon knee; leaning forward, and well past invisible boundaries beyond which lay comfort._

_The obscure torment of his smirk weaving a spell of thick, offensive magic in the air, the Rakkoran said, "then allow me to shed guise from stranger, and set it aflame; for such distrust is in hurtful plethora."_

* * *

_No,_ _stop; focus_. The Demacian gritted his teeth as he returned to his desk, sinking back into the overstuffed velvet chair as he berated himself for the lapse in thought. Determinedly, he extracted the next book from the miniature tower he had constructed and flipped it open with a snap; choking slightly on the plume of the dust (which he swears he saw emerge in the shape of a skull).

The books were loaned from the Rakelstake library, through which the Frost Archer had guided him, cheerfully pronouncing it to be one of the most extensive archives in Valoran; and based on sheer volume alone, Garen was inclined to agree. The librarian, an energetic and surprisingly fit Avarosan scholar whom Ashe had called _Crumple_, widened his eyes at the mention of the Winter Sapphire and immediately vanished, disappearing amongst the shadowed bookshelves like an elf amongst trees. He reappeared every two minutes, each time carrying a stack of half a dozen tomes, the pile upon the escritoire growing increasingly intimidating with every visit.

Ashe and Crumple had agreed to read through most of the mountain (some thirty tomes), whereas Garen had brought home the rest (fifteen), both parties promising to keep the research to the extremes of confidentiality, and to inform the other and their councils upon significant discovery. Unfortunately, the former is a contract that Garen very much regrets – Tryndamere, whom Ashe had deemed viable candidate had declined his request, and with what Garen deemed was an excessive aggression.

The other candidate was his sister, whom Ashe had met once before and had taken a liking to. Lux was still in Piltover, assisting the Revered Inventor in some obscure experiment or somesuch. The girl had tried explaining it to him before she left, though Garen's interest quickly faded as the account progressed, the deluge of detailed magical and techmaturgical jargon completely flying over his head.

At the end of all modes, he was left very much alone, with naught but fifteen cryptic leather-bound monsters for company.

Garen turned the first page. He was even reading through the epilogue, which from what he gathered was some form of dedication to the author's deceased pet iguana, a creature indigenous to the Kumungu Jungle which had died when its owner had accidentally sat upon it. Garen paused, dubious if the book contained any mention of the Winter Sapphire, or even any trace of coherence at all.

* * *

_Garen swallowed. The Rakkoran's proximity, and the various scents which it entailed – were sending his body to mutiny, leaving his breath short and his cheeks aflame. A bead of sweat skirted around the corner of his brow with nimble dexterity, proceeding thereafter to make leisurely voyage down his cheek; gleaming upon it the image of the sun peeping mischievously over the crevasse's chapped lips._

_If the Rakkoran had noticed the knight's distress, he did not voice it. "When I depart, I shall make side of way towards the encampment and have the Frost Archer informed of your predicament; whom I imagine should have help arrive within the day." Pantheon tapped the tip of his nose, then continued, "if, you would uphold your end of the barter."_

_"What barter?" Garen asked, even as his eyes narrowed in worried suspicion._

_"My aid, without which days could pass before you are quit of this abyss," came Pantheon's words, dangerously soft, and oddly without even iota of nuanced jibe or irony. "In exchange for a kiss."_

_Dazed, the Demacian's eyes darted around the Rakkoran's face in pursuit of an answer, for he could not comprehend what was just uttered, of the intent once inexplicable that was now taking shape to wayward wares._

* * *

Garen's unseeing eyes were still transfixed by the second page when he jumped in his seat, the sudden voice as always brightly cheerful to the brink of audacity.

"Greetings, O Might of Demacia… missed me?" asked nobody. Nobody visible, anyway.

"Lux," Garen said in exasperation, even as his heartbeat abated to one of more deliberate rhythm. "Not particularly, no. Regress, and voice to me what is read upon my door."

There was the sound of tinkling glass as his sister reappeared, the film of bent light unraveling to reveal her bemused face. She turned, holding open the ornate oak door she had so artfully sneaked past mere seconds ago, her upper torso vanishing as she twisted around its side.

"Garen Crownguard, resident tightrope walker," came the voice from behind the door.

Garen rolled his eyes. "Next time, knock."

"Alas, I can't acquiesce to such agreement," Lux said with an air of exaggerated regret, sinking herself into one of the velvet cushioned chairs arranged before the desk in a semicircle. "Deception is forever such ready host to disappointment, and oaths I can't keep are always extravagant invitation to your dramatics."

"I'm afraid that I am unaware of what particular distress knocking upon my door may cause to your person."

Lux pouted. "Your door is too hard. It hurts my knuckles."

"My door begs your forgiveness," Garen said drily. "And the invisibility?"

"Mere ingenuity on my part. Did my brother not find my unexpected appearance one of delightful surprise?"

"Your described _delightful surprise_ gave your brother a heart attack."

Lux tilted her head to a side, her hair falling over her shoulder in a golden waterfall. She observed him carefully. "You're rather sullen, aren't you? More so than what this dreary catacomb is accustomed to. What haunts your mente?"

Garen gave her a blank stare. "Is that a question?"

"I am aware of your recent failure in the north, for certainty."

"And yet you ask."

Lux huffed. "And yet guilt waxes and wanes upon your countenance with such frequency that from a sand to the next one is left wary if upon greeting, should you respond in kind or instead collapse into sorrowful tears for some misguided occurrence of which culpability you've recently taken fancy to – say the loss of a battle, or some off-handed remark by Jarvan in regards to subdued temperament of his morning coffee, of which pertaining concoction you did not even participate in."

_Not again, _thought Garen; it appears that of late everyone he met spoke from the same script of some play he had yet to see, and yet somehow was already playing the main role _._

"You exaggerate," he said drily, his tone as light as it was brittle; weary. "Also, concoction may have been absent my hand, but it was I who tardied in its delivery," Garen added defensively.

Lux supplied him a strange look, as though unsure what to make of this person whom now sat before her; so incredible and yet in such uncanny likeness of her brother.

Garen coughed, eager to get off the subject. "In any event, I have a favour to ask of you, now that you have so duly returned."

Lux raised an eyebrow. "Ask away."

Garen halved the book-tower upon his desk and pushed it towards the mage, grunting slightly with the effort. "One of research. Ashe and I are seeking information on the Winter Sapphire from the Rakelstake archives – these books over here. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated," said Garen . He paused, staring at his half as though in consideration, then innocently added another tome onto his sister's stack.

Lux eyed her pile in bemusement, but made no comment.

"So, you'll do it then?" Garen prompted hopefully.

"Little more than an hourglass ago I was still on a yordle airship, my feet three days away from Piltoverian soil. My joints yet ache in memory of blasted low ceilings and blasted attempt to find sleep in a bunk three times less my height; to abject failure. Now all I seek is rest, and yet my blessed pillow has yet to find head and already you ply me with literal mountain of work. Is this truly how one treats their sister?"

"Tis' the epitome of fraternal love," said Garen, grinning; for he knew that her aid had already been won.

"No, tis' the argument against incest," Lux retorted irritably. "Of all modes, I shan't suffer your abuse till I've had much-needed rest, for eyes with errant curtain are of worse detriment than those sealed shut."

"For certainty," Garen said quickly. "The greatest mind in Demacia burns e'er so bright, but it would be unwise to force its brilliance even when the night-oil runs low."

Lux pursed her lips; and Garen knew that she was biting back a smile. "Such flattery does not become you," she said mockingly.

"No, I speak the truth. You do know me to be an honest man."

"Oh?" The mage raised an eyebrow, folding her arms across her breastplate as she leaned back into her seat. "Then tell me, what distress daunts your countenance? Tis' a question you have yet to answer – and don't try the Winter Sapphire, brother, I know you well enough to tell your guilty face apart from the others."

"My _guilty face_?" asked Garen in disbelief.

"Yes, when your ears droop and your eyes fall in the likeness of a kicked pup," Lux said simply, ignoring the growing incredulity upon Garen's face. "The face I saw before I made my presence known, however, was something else. In fact," Lux said slyly, waggling a finger at narrowed eyes, "you were practically sulking. Have you recently been slighted by some comment of Lord Vessler?"

Garen rolled his eyes. He had long since lost interest in the pompous lord of House Buvelle, whose head as he had discovered contained a seemingly endless supply of air, which he took great relish in releasing at every given opportunity absent filter. He is now witless as to what fancy he found in Vessler, but how very much like Lux to bring his embarrassing past crush to mention. "No," he said drily. "And Vessler does not comment, he blows, though he does waggle his tongue during the process in such manner that one may misinterpret as human speech."

Lux grimaced. "An observation which I had made little more than a month ago, cause of which I had received one of the most caustic diatribes I've ever had the distinct displeasure to hear from you, or from anyone else for the matter." She shook her head, yawning. "For the captain of the Daunting Vanguard, you are frighteningly mercurial."

"Just go to your quarters and rest. You're exhausted," said Garen, the mage's eyes softening at the concern in his voice.

"Fine, but do not think this victory; I intend to make it my knowledge the object of your fancy."

Garen chuckled in what he hoped was convincing manner. "Then I'm afraid that you'll be sorely disappointed, for there is no object, nor is there any fancy."

But Lux had already alighted her seat, the tomes trailing behind her upon a disc of coruscating light. She hesitated upon reaching the door; turning. "I certainly hope it isn't Petaer, though. Pretty as he is, he is well in need of mint-sweet."

"It isn't anybody," said Garen in hopeless exasperation. "Just go!"

* * *

_"I… do not understand. You must be mistaken. I have never… I do not favour a… that from you, nor do I find your form pleasing in… any way," said Garen finally, his heart drumming erratic against his chest at a lie most denied, one that spoke of unwanted appeal from the delectable Rakkoran feast before him._

_"Too many details fail the efforts of a man who wishes denial ring true. Spare us both of them, for they hold no weight in something that needs no gravity," said the Rakkoran, his voice more drenched with sophisticated boldness than ever before._

_And, that being said, he leaned in, claiming Demacian lips with his own._

_Garen does not remember much, not beyond low-uttered curse turning into soft mewls at prickly facial hair, nor his lips parting as darting tongue stroked into his mouth, eliciting a moan deep within his throat. He does not remember if he struggled, or if he did, how long it took before the Rakkoran's scent robbed him of his senses, intoxicating him to greater effect than a cask of Gragas's finest wine._

_Then the Rakkoran pulled away, that infuriating smirk painted across swollen lips, as Garen whined from the sudden loss of sensation._

_"I…" Garen began when he next found breath; but the Rakkoran was already gone._

* * *

Somewhere in Demacia, a captain of the Daunting Vanguard sat before his desk, surveying his reading with the intense consideration of a hundred war generals; before slamming his head resolutely into its yellowing pages.

**-TBC-**

* * *

**-TBC-**


	4. Of The Time Jarvan Was Disgusting

**Chapter 3: Of The Time Jarvan Was Disgusting**

(and he really is)

* * *

_The troops were ailing, the disease in their drink taking its toll; and Jason the Unready was not exempt, having insisted upon portion of the troops' mead night by night and camp by camp. The day succeeding the poisoning, and before the watershed battle between the two great houses Buvelle and Archeron; is now widely referred to as the Doom of Flies, the creatures imbibing themselves to asphyxiation upon the ocean of human dysentry washing across the Forsaken Land, then yet known as the Plain of Heroes._

Garen's eyebrow twitched.

"Is that an apple, or a tool box that you're sending through an abandoned sawmill?" asked Garen finally over _A Succinct and Live Account of Western Valoran,_ which was neither succinct nor alive. He was glaring pointedly at his sister, slouched lazily in an overstuffed armchair, sneakered feet (some form of footwear apparently popular in Piltover) up on the low crystal table, a half-finished tome upon her lap and apple in her hand.

The mage furrowed her brow in confusion. "Whao do you mean?" she slurred with apple.

"The sound of your chewing could be heard from here to the Shadow Isles," said Garen irritably, the mage's eyes widening in bemusement. "I could barely hear my own thoughts over your teeth grinding to waste what sounds to be a myriad assortment of bolts and screws."

"You exaggerate," Lux said dismissively, her eyes returning to her book as she gave the apple a defiant chomp.

With a growl the knight released _A Succinct and Live Account of Western Valoran_, the tome falling onto the desk's expensive wood with a hollow crash. Alighting his seat, he strode across the spiral carpet, the mage not sparing an upwards glance as plated boots came to a muffled stop next to her person.

She let out an indignant cry as Garen snatched the apple from her hand.

"What do you think you're doing?" the mage hissed, her eyes narrowing in anger.

"If you cannot find decency to chew in silence then you might as well not chew at all," Garen declared sanctimoniously.

Lux rolled her eyes. "I hope that your juvenility finds speaker's ears."

"Thus speaks the one eating an apple."

"Give it back, lackwit."

"Promise to chew quietly."

Lux's answer was a ray of incandescence searing his hand.

Garen yelped, but stoically, did not loosen his hold on the fruit. Glaring at defiant eyes in anger, he flung the apple over his shoulder, smirking victoriously at the satisfying thud of apple against distant surface, and the growing look of horror upon his sister's face.

"Garen."

It took a second before the knight registered the voice from behind, echoing familiar from infancy to the command it has become. _Oh, seven fucking saint._

"Your grace," Garen said slowly even as he turned around, fearing the worst.

The prince stood in his doorway, the maroon of evening sun falling through the tall, ornate windows to crash against intricate armour in a golden miasma of ruddy dust. He looked imposing, regal as always; though his nobility was compromised somewhat by the half-eaten red fruit skewered upon his helm, its viscid juices skirting the emerald embossment and dripping freely onto his elegant nose.

Jarvan sighed in an exaggerated display of patience as he plucked the apple from his head. Tossing it into the air again and again, his gauntlet ringing with every catch, he said, "How many times have I told you to call me by name, Garen?"

"Apologies, I…"

"I don't understand why you persist in such pretense, Jarvan," interrupted Lux lazily, draped over the back of her velvet chair to face the prince. "You've ceased any right to familiarity five years ago, and to reconcile subordination with intimacy is nothing short of a farce of the grandest proportions."

"Lux," Garen sighed in resignation. His sister and the prince had never gotten along, the mage never having seen fit to sheath her tongue or at least blunt her words when casting them in his presence. She saw nothing in the man which warranted him such puzzling respect from her brother, save the lineage she so secretly derides; but then again, she was still a project in their mother's womb when the two were painting each other black and blue with sticks that they fancied swords. "Be polite. Your gra- Jarvan, what finds you in my quarters?"

"Aside from having apples thrown at me," Jarvan said drily, looking determinedly away from the mage who was glaring at him icily, as though she wanted nothing more than a basket of said fruit. "I bring you tragic news."

Garen's eyes narrowed. An occurrence to warrant a visit from Jarvan could be of no small import.

"What is it?" Lux demanded, sharply.

"House Laurent regrets to inform us that… Lord Serryn is dead."

Lux let loose a soft gasp, even as Garen paled visibly. "How? I saw him but a week ago! He was dazed from the stranger's death, certainly, but recovering rapidly."

"It seems he was murdered."

"Murder…" Lux leaped to her feet. "We must speak to House Laurent. I think even you, Jarvan, know how serious this is."

"Otherwise I would not be here," Jarvan said testily, his armoured hand stilling around the apple. "His family is inconsolable; especially Lady Jenna, his eldest daughter, who is beside herself in grief. I thought you might need a little extra authority on your side in seeking their audience."

If Lux was discontent at the prospect of intruding upon the house during their time of mourning, she did not voice it; the seriousness of the matter was such that investigation could not be delayed.

"Lead the way," Garen said gravely, his stomach twisting with unease.

The prince shrugged, turned, then started walking down the spiral staircase winding around the inner walls of the tower; the landings breaks in the darkness, illuminated by the dimming orange of the Demacian sky. The well-worn steps appeared to Garen startlingly like a serpent, ominous, the sounds of armour echoing throughout the vast emptiness the shivering of its venomous bones.

Lux cringed in horror from a flight above, when the prince bit into her apple with an unconcerned _crunch_.

* * *

"It was the barbarian! I knew we should never have allowed him within our walls, now feast with your blinded eyes at what has come to pass!" cried Lord Jeorah, waving his hands madly at the figure slumped against the wall, the flickering oil-light illuminating the trickle of blood that had escaped through the corner of its now silent lips. The old man's eyes were closed, and he looked oddly at peace, as though he were merely asleep and the blood soaking his wizened beard mere wine which he had taken in excess during one of the famous Laurent feasts, which he had presided nobly over mere month ago before collapsing inebriated into a boat of gravy. "We were the house that had voted against the amnesty, and yet we suffer the consequences of your foolishness!"

_He is mad with grief,_ mused Garen, even as he wrapped a consoling arm around Jenna, whom he had coaxed from the body and was now sobbing tremulously into his chest. Tryndamere could not possibly have held any grudge against Serryn, whom he did not know and everyone else loved without question. Garen suspected darkly that even if the ice barbarian were to have been responsible for the old man's death, there would have been perhaps more of a mess.

His sister was squatted before the corpse, an orb of light suspended between her thumb and index finger; they followed the movement of her gaze, illuminating what areas caught her suspicion. She stiffened, then, burying her fingers into the folds of the dead man's garb, extracted a white cone-like object, no larger than Garen's thumb.

"Lady Jenna, do you recognize this? The texture is ivory," she asked the weeping woman quietly, holding up the object to the light. Slowly, she lifted her face from Garen's chest, wiping a sable sleeve across her reddened eyes.

"No," said Jenna bravely. "But father collected many such little curiosities. I would not be surprised if it were the claw of a snargaluff or the milktooth of some baby teagobbler from the Ironspike Mountains..." Jenna smiled sadly, her eyes glistening with humidity.

Lux nodded solemnly. "He appears to have sustained no injuries… at least, not ones that bleed. I would not rule out poison."

"And _what_ is your grace doing here?" Lord Jeorah cried at the mage. Garen was surprised that he had managed to remain silent throughout her inspection of his uncle. "Are you so idle that you fancy yourself detective? What right have you to manhandle Serryn in the constables' stead? You Crownguards are the entire reason why this has come to pass, fraternizing yourselves with barbarians and shielding them from justice's blade!"

"I like to think that I am a little bit more distinguished than a barbarian, thank you," Jarvan said, flashing the irate young lord an impersonable grin. He had been leaning against an antique bookshelf, observing Lux from its shade as she worked.

Jeorah's eyes widened in fearful surprise, his vitriol forgotten. "No, your grace, that was not what I meant. I was merely pointing out that the Crownguards-"

"The Crownguards, obviously, are the guardians of the crown," Jarvan cut across his babbling with lazy efficiency. "I will forget that insult, seeing that anguish has gripped your tongue to paint unpleasant hue. But I think that it may be wise if you retired to your quarters now, for the night grows long, and the sorrow as such that you have lamentably sustained would be well-served with dose of solitude."

Jeorah nodded grimly, before turning to leave the room; and as the door to the study slammed unceremoniously shut, Garen knew that they had not made a new friend.

"Jarvan, come here, I think that there's something behind his back," Lux said quietly.

The heiress of House Laurent alighted herself from Garen's chest, tears forgotten as they stared in trepidation at the prince, who delicately removed Lord Serryn's lifeless body from the wall; doubling it over to reveal the hilt of knife, half-buried through his spine.

Jenna gasped at the sight, tears returning to stream down her weathered cheeks.

Garen's heart stopped. He did not need Jarvan to carefully pluck the dagger from between the corpse's shoulders - every tug followed by the sickening sound of punctured heart - to recognize its jagged curves, and the unique storm-like pattern embossed upon the flat of its blade.

"It appears to be of Noxian make…" Lux observed coldly, and Jarvan nodded his assent.

"It may appear that the Noxians are involved after all. Our interference in Freljord must have sparked suspicion in their courts, and an assassin was sent to eliminate Lord Serryn to pre-empt any further memories which he may have had for recollection," Jarvan said drily. "Perhaps it is only I, but I'm not particularly surprised that our high hopes for a truce may just have been proven self-indulgent fantasy."

"Or," Lux said swiftly, staring at Jarvan with something close to open distaste. "It could have been a setup. Noxian knives aren't particularly difficult to obtain, nor would any self-respecting assassin leave his mark here for us to discover; at least, not if they actively sought to occult their origins… do you recognize it, brother?"

Lux was staring at him intensely, quick as ever to note his unease.

In an instant, all three sets of eyes in the room were trained upon him; Garen coughed uncomfortably. "It's a _langue de serpent._ Or at least, that's what Katarina calls them."

* * *

They were in the commons room of House Laurent, the constables having been granted entry and having left with the late patriarch's corpse, carrying it to the morgue for further inspection. The lamps were burning low, as were the spirits in the room, for the mourning family would not quench their thirst for oil. It mattered not, however, as the glowing sphere above the ornately-carved long-table served more than sufficient lighting for the objects of their captivation.

"Refresh my memory, what were these… paintings called again?" asked Lord Rickard, a hulking man whom many declared fondly to be the splitting image of a young Serryn. The grandson of the deceased lord was leaning over the table, scrutinizing the colourful rectangular films of plastic spread haphazardly across its surface.

"Photographs," replied Lux politely. The mage was seated opposite him and Jarvan, betwixt two other Laurent lords and ladies, Alveara and Tevar, both of whom were staring solemnly at the _photographs._ "It is new techmaturgy that Heimerdinger and I have developed, utilizing light to draw images upon chemical-soaked strips of plastic."

"Very impressive," said Tevar, raising a piece to a bespectacled eye, upon which was drawn the _langue de serpent,_ displayed menacingly upon a white cloth, bespeckled dark scarlet. "Though I would have preferred if its first uses were of scenery... some meadow in bloom perhaps, or some mountain crag; rather than a record of our pain."

"We all regret Lord Serryn's death, Tevar," said Garen softly, transfixed by an image of the wizened corpse once again lying propped against the wall. "It is nearly as much our loss as it is yours, for one could not have met a nobler and kindlier man."

"Do you really?" asked Alveara; the older woman's voice was dripping with accusation. Unlike her sister, Jenna, who had claimed illness and returned to her quarters; the second heiress of Laurance had expressed no such fatigue, and had instead insisted upon attending the night's discussions. "I've heard the rumours, your grace, of your dalliance with the red-haired Noxian who has slain my father. I would not put it past you to have been the one who aided her intrusion of our walls."

Garen was opening his mouth to respond when Jarvan snorted. "Trust me, Alveara, when I say that Garen harbours no particular sentimentality for the Knife of Noxus; much less is capable of having a _dalliance _with her. Let rumours stay rumours, though I am surprised that you lacked so much sense to begin with to lend them such credit."

Lux shrugged nonchalantly as she nodded in assent, and Garen could not help but feel as offended as the stout, greying woman across the table.

"Besides," Jarvan added, "we have yet to entertain the possibility of a setup." He stared at Lux, who merely blinked in reply.

"Interesting," said Tevar, rubbing his chin, "It certainly would have been viable machinery, to sow seeds of chaos between two powers of tenuous peace, for some third party to reap whatever reward, like crows after a bloody war."

"I remained unconvinced," said Alveara doubtfully. "Only Noxian espionage and their dark daggers could have managed to infiltrate the chinks in our security. I will have you know that our guard has been doubled since the night Serryn was accosted by that vagabond…"

"Actually, we fear that this has to do with the stranger," said Garen with a grimace. They deserved to know the truth. "I'm sure that you know of the theft of the Winter Sapphire?"

"I am aware of your failure in the north, yes," said the stout woman pointedly, even as Lux rolled her eyes at the acid in her tone. Garen bowed his head.

"It was the stranger who spoke to Lord Serryn of the gem, who in turn passed the information unto the council."

For a breath all was silent save for the dying splutter of the last oil-lamp to their right, choking itself into darkness.

Rickard was the first to find voice. "Why were we not informed of this?"

"Lord Serryn was told not to," said Jarvan gravely. "We have reason to believe that the stranger was in fact the Wizard Zalagath, of the Marshes of Khaladoun. It is the entire basis of Garen's venture into Freljord."

"Ah, the Burning Tower," Tevar nodded in sudden comprehension. "I should have noted the coincidence of the dates…"

"But we could have increased our guard!" cried the young knight. "We would have been prepared! Had we known that grandfather was party to such information, perhaps he would still be alive!"

"His grace's safety, I admit, was an oversight," Jarvan grimaced. "However, it was his own choice to retain the information. We merely advised."

"Your advice, _prince_, killed my grandfather."

"Rickard…" Tevar warned, though his tone was not unkind. "Perhaps it is time that you retired; it is getting late, and belated passions should be saved for a time when you have better rein."

"I require no s-" Rickard began hotly, but was interrupted by the sudden ambiance which permeated throughout the room, one of lilies' scent and distant memory of the laughter of stars. He paused, staring into the doorway, the rest of the table following his gaze.

"Lady Soraka," said Alveara softly, her eyes gleaming with sorrow. "I trust that you had found the Broken Tower."

Garen raised an eyebrow. The Starchild's purpose in Demacia was largely unknown, but had apparently been greeted into the city with great ceremony during his absence; and the streets, as he was told, were nigh on impassable with the flush of Demacian citizens, some seeking sight of this rare creature, others kneeling upon the cobbled pavements, beseeching the blessings of the stars; and more still showering her with dire requests and little favours, from the healing of a bruise to an ailing old man in some lightless spare room.

Lux was staring at the Starchild with something akin to shock; before sobering, quickly, and returning her attention to the _photographs_. It would appear that she had not been aware of the Starchild's presence in Demacia.

"The stars have heard my prayers, that is certain; I saw them flicker from the broken top. But as ever they do not respond," Soraka slowed to a halt at the head of the table, her hooves clicking upon the marble floor. She surveyed them with solemn amber eyes. "I… am sorry for not having been able to save Serryn. His eyes were lightless, and his spirit was already amongst the stars when you called for my aid."

"Do not apologize, you are not to blame," said Alveara, even as she shot Garen an accusing glare. Garen chewed the inside of his lip, his gut twisting in guilt. "The Broken Tower had not been scaled in decades, I would have warned you as to the precariousness of its blackened steps, but I was too consumed by grief to find sense."

"It is of no moment," Soraka smiled. "And hooves are more efficient tool for climbing than what one might think."

"She speaks the truth! In my youth we often had competitions of strength and endurance, no doubt in attempt to warm our bodies during the long winters; and upon one particular occasion our boasts had brought us to the Protuberance, the highest mountain in Ironspike." Tryndamere was leaning against his sword in the doorway, his teeth gleaming snowy white. He looked extremely at ease; quit of his armour and garbed in Demacian cotton, dyed a frosty blue. "We lost two men that day; and as we retreated with our tails between our legs from the mountain's waist, what were we to see, through the angry hail and ice… but a fucking _goat_ on the peak, bleating down at us and looking for all the world as though he's been there since the beginning of time!"

He strode across the room, and much to the consternation of Lady Alveara, wrapped an inhumanly muscled arm around Soraka's shoulders, shaking with laughter. "Then we went back to the camp, and guess what we saw?"

Lux and Jarvan were staring at the barbarian with amused smiles painted across their faces; though the others appeared nothing short of scandalized.

"Tryndamere," Garen coughed uncomfortably. "I hardly think that this is the ti-"

"Go on, _guess_!" The barbarian was grinning so hard that Garen was afraid that he might split his face in two.

"How did you get in?" asked Rickard with unconcealed hostility. "Our guards were given strict orders not to allow anyone-"

"Our fence had a hole in the western end! The wood was splintered by the hail, and one of our goats had escaped… the goat on the peak was _ours_! The little bastard must've have heard of our boasts and, rolling its square little eyes, beat us to the top!" The barbarian slapped a massive palm upon the desk as he let loose a hearty guffaw.

"He followed me," said Soraka emotionlessly, and Garen was left amazed that she was still standing under the barbarian's crushing weight. "He saw me going up the tower, and upon question, I told him of the tragedy which had come to pass."

"Yeah, sorry for the loss by the way," Tryndamere grimaced, wiping away the mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes. "I didn't know him, but I think he was alright; he voted for my ambassadorship anyway."

"House Laurent receives your condolences," said Tevar in bemusement.

"What _are_ these anyway?" Tryndamere's eyes had landed upon the _photographs_. He lifted one up to his curious eyes, peeling it from the table with such rough imprecision that Garen was afraid that he was going to tear it in half. "Is this the dead guy? How did you draw something so lifelike? I thought he'd just died a couple of hours ago."

Garen winced. Alveara's puffy cheeks were trembling with such fury that it appeared she was on the verge of exploding into a yellow shower of fat and cream.

"They are photographs, and are produced by techmaturgy and magic, not by hand," explained Jarvan. "Lux made several dozen of them before the constables took the body to the morgue. She believes that they will serve purpose of record, and with revision bring us to attention some piece of evidence we may have overlooked."

"To be forever frozen in death…" Soraka said slowly, examining a piece that had caught her eye. "I do not like this. It makes mockery of the dead."

"And yet, it may be the only way to bring peace to Lord Serryn, should we find the killer by its aid."

"You agree with this?" The Starchild was staring inquisitively at Alveara. With a silken handkerchief, the rotund woman wiped away the sheen of sweat that had collected upon her fore.

"It leaves bitter taste upon my tongue," she admitted. "But Lady Crownguard has assured me that once justice is served, she will have them burned."

Lux nodded in affirmation. "Though I've been considering introducing photography into our detective force, once it is more user-friendly."

"User-friendly?" Tevar stared at her in confusion. "Do you mean to provide the machine with amiable sentience?"

"It means that I intend to make it operable by others, even if they lacked precise knowledge of its workings," explained Lux politely. "It is jargon used in Piltover, to determine the marketability of a product during its beta-tests."

"_Beta-tests_…? -"

"Are we here to discuss blasted capitalism and techmaturgy…" gritted Rickard through his teeth; and Garen knew that, under the table, his grip was tightening upon his sword. "Or are we here to seek out the killer of my grandfather, who was slaughtered not a hundred yards away from where we are seated now, and whose body yet warms some cold granite slab beneath gargoyles' vigil?"

"Apologies," said Lux sincerely, grimacing. She twirled a finger, the sphere of light above them whipping to the other end of the table as it flattened into a screen. Questioning eyes gleamed in the darkness as they traced its progress, even as a series of images began to appear in quick succession; numbers, charts, graphs; and the photographs which Lux was now observing… nay, _scanning_ with her eyes, which were glowing a brilliant silvery white. "We'll begin with the times; when, and where was Lord Serryn last seen whilst alive?" she asked, solemn and swift, even as the glow had yet to fade from her eyes.

As Lady Alveara began to answer, Garen observed, from the corner of his eye, the barbarian pulling out a seat for the Starchild. Seating herself slowly, her captivated amber orbs reflected the fantastic images moving across the screen; which for all the world looked like a dozen tiny, golden stars.

**-TBC-**

* * *

**-TBC-**


	5. Of The Time Garen Disagreed With Wookies

**Chapter 4: Of The Time Garen Disagreed With Wookiees**

* * *

_Perhaps,_ mused Garen grimly, every dusty step he scaled with plated boots sending violent jolts throughout the tray in his arms, clattering loudly and threatening to capsize its contents; soup, salad, ham, omelette and silver knives; all careening into the spiralling abyss below. _Perhaps it is time that the council was quit of its prejudices, and had those lazy elevator devices they use in Piltover installed. Seven saints know how much expedition that would bring._ He was growing increasingly discontent with the impracticality of the spiral monstrosities, most offices rising five dragon-lengths above the busy Demacian streets.

Discontent… an increasingly familiar sensation. He blamed the Rakkoran.

Absently, he nudged open the door to his quarters with a steel-tipped toe, widening the thread of golden light which had escaped onto the landing into a pillar. He glanced at the velvet chair in the commons room (absent), before noting his sister seated femininely next to an open window, her blonde head propped upon folded arms, staring vacantly into the Demacian skyline.

"The kitchens were out of bacon," said Garen with a tone of regret, laying down the tray upon an oak dining table. "Hardly a surprise, as breakfast was half a day past."

"I'm still unsure of where it leaves us, the affair, I mean," said the mage without turning, the wind softening her voice in such manner that she sounded far away; which in a sense Garen supposed she was. "So many things are occurring at once, and I feel that there are so many things that we must do, and so many places that we ought to be… it overwhelms me, crushing me into a ball and tearing me apart at the same time."

Garen knew what she meant far too well. "Such is the price of honour," he said to the (so very) young girl staring out into the stitchless sky, her golden hair gleaming in the sun, and flowing in the wind. She turned to face him, and he saw that her flaxen brows were knitted together in a frown.

"Nay, tis' the price of human conscience."

Garen felt no urge to argue, weary; the past few days have been taxing. They have made no progress as to indentifying the killer, and Jenna has yet to show any indication of venturing out of her room, despite the endless coaxing and firm (irate) knocks upon her door. Alliances and other liaisons had to be renewed, and gifts of condolence and congratulations had to be sent; but all such extensions of good will were duly rejected by the impassive wooden door. Garen himself had visited twice, but he could not achieve what her own children had failed.

Tevar assured him that he will do what he can in her stead, reviewing and authorizing papers of stables and waterwork and land and rent; but Garen knew that the man could do very little when it came to more pressing affairs, those which required the official hand of the Lady of the House.

By becoming the new Lady of House Laurent automatically meant a seat for her in the council, and it grows increasingly impatient as it continues to glare absent, what with the stranger and the murder and its apparent ties to the Winter Sapphire's theft; a relic no one had even heard of prior to a month ago, but was already the object of much consternated debate, with certain members in staunch support of an expedition for its (unlikely) recovery. _Tis' such common irony,_ mused Garen grimly, as he pulled out a stool from under the dining table, _when an object only gains import when it is lost._

And then Soraka left, citing some deep calling need for her guidance in some other corner of the world. Garen did not begrudge the Starchild, but such "deep calling need" could not have come at a less opportune time, the combination of Lord Serryn's death and her departure one that shook Demacian hearts to the core; and he knew that there were whispers in the cobbled streets that even the stars have abandoned the city-state, in the shadow of some impending doom.

And then Lux discovered the passage – buried deep within roundabout verbosities in the dusty century-old pages of _On Euhemerization of Icathia_ – which detailed passing mention of the Winter Sapphire, and the Gems of Transcendence.

_Twenty-seven years were past before Allisa the Grand Explorer claimed to have laid eyes upon the apocryphal city, when another adventurer, also from Piltover (it would appear to be a city of idle fools), I. Jones, embarked on a journey throughout the Fyrone Flats; a desolate plains where the ground is as brittle as glass, and many an adventurer had fallen, wayward step piercing their flesh and vital organs with splintering earth. I. Jones, however, claims not only to have seen Icathia, but details his supposed adventures in "Three Nights in Icathia". Note that Allisa's account of the city mere decades ago was located east of the Voodoo Lands, and one cannot help but wonder how many Icathias exist in the world. Two? Three? Six? Or is Demacia an Icathia minus the "glowing green lichen which moved when one averted their eyes", with demonstrably superior maintenance of public hygiene?_

_For such is the ridiculousness of the stubborn myth of Icathia that these Piltoverian masters of fiction have concocted in their decadent boredom. Colossal buildings ten times the height and breadth of any Demacian spire? Mute, tall creatures which flickered in and out of the void, striding its desolate streets with shadowed steps, in between worlds? Statues which appeared polished marble, but when ear is placed to their chests there is heartbeat to be heard? And most ridiculous of all; round, striped fruit large enough to be worn as battle helms, with watery flesh as red as blood!_

_I. Jones notes that his discovery of the Void-City was an accident (which is just as well, for one would have been surprised if an impact upon the head had not been involved); claiming to have been following the counsel of a compass, forged from lodestone, star-rock and thunder-glass, and left to him by the widely-esteemed Grand Explorer Versalles – his grandfather and Allisa's predecessor. This compass was called the Seeker, with which Versalles had used to recover the Lightning Amber, an item of the largely unknown and esoteric Gems of Transcendence, which now lies gathering dust in Piltover's Museum of Natural History; as do most items which do not offer its user some effect of immediate power (the other known gem being the Winter Sapphire, which resides in Lokfar, Freljord.)_

_I. Jones claims that, in Shurima, the compass had glowed bright red, leading him towards the base of Azigfo Dimaryp, amongst the largest and most infamous of the floating pyramids of the enchanted desert. There the compass had spun madly in all directions; good indication that one of the Gems of Transcendence lay within; and, bracing himself for the plethora of traps which undoubted lay in wait (some sources decidedly claim that the larger the pyramid, the more perilous and numerous the traps; with proportional reward), he cast his grappling hook. And that… was when the sandstom struck. Probably._

_When I. Jones had came to, he was at the southwestern edge of the desert, and save some sand in his boots was mysteriously ( fictionally) unharmed by the storm. It was there when the compass glowed a dark purple instead, and led him safely across the Fyrone Flats to Icathia; where he then proceeded to conveniently lose the compass to "gigantic ants which whistled tunes too strange to be human and yet far too human to be stranger." However, in exchange for a compass which sought out useless gems; Jones did receive fresh new material for his story, so not all was as grim as it appeared... _

"Eat," said Garen with a hand clasped over his mouth, stifling a yawn. They had spent the entirety of the past night finishing the tomes; all possessed mention of the Winter Sapphire, yes, but usually as passing fact of existence or some short anecdote pertaining to Freljordian lore. Garen does not know how Crumple found all the books without knowing their contents, but surmised it to be some form of archiving magic. "We'll discuss after."

He did not have to say it twice, the mage already wrinkling her nose as she pulled out a seat. "I thought I had made request for cream of mushroom."

Garen blinked. "Yes, and I brought you some."

She lifted the object in question, examining it with narrowed eyes; before lowering it down slowly. "I wanted soup, this… is a bowl."

Garen groaned as he looked into the empty wooden bowl, its edges marked milky white where the soup had splotched out of place. "If you're desperate enough I'm sure you can still find the rest on my staircase, though it may no longer be warm enough for your tastes."

"I pity the cleaning-woman of this building," said Lux blandly, through a mouthful of ham.

"There is none."

Lux raised an eyebrow. "But what of Cinthia?"

"She resigned. I have yet to look for a replacement," said Garen quietly, determinedly chopping his omelette into pieces far more adequate for a mouth a dozen times smaller than his.

"But why?"

"Has no one taught you not to speak with a mouth full?" asked Garen irritably. The details of Cinthia's departure were of rather delicate issue, _and_ – Garen thought privately – _on a morning where he himself had awoken in a horrified daze, to a raven-haired lord draped over his body as an uncomfortable blanket._

Garen's ears flamed bright red at the thought.

"_You_ have," said Lux sarcastically, even as she shovelled a spoonful of omelette into her mouth, which yet displayed unwelcome sight of mutilated ham. Despite what she may have the gentlemen of court believe, the Light of Demacia was no lady. "But only on occasions when subject strays too far from comfortable shore. Seven saints know what horrors succeed in your quarters, when the servants resign one after another as would ravens fleeing a burning tower."

Both brother and sister froze as grave silence cast its spell over the table.

"The Gems of Transcendence," Garen said heavily, as he peeled the shell from a boiled egg. "What role could Zalagath have possibly played, that – yet unsatisfied with his death – the killer was so keen to occult he would tear an entire tower apart and set its ruins aflame?" he asked, not directing the question to anyone in particular.

"We have yet to confirm that the wizard is the one which lies in the morgue," said Lux with a shrug. "Perhaps the happenings at the Burning Tower were the result of some summoning or alchemical experiment gone horribly wrong. For all we know, the two events are entirely unrelated."

Which was true; no Demacian eye has been laid upon the wizard in the past decades, and before that – when the winter of age had not yet snowed upon his autumn locks, and when the world still thrummed with wayward magic of the Rune Wars – only fleetingly and far between.

* * *

He heard it first, a low hum carried by the wind; a fly hovering too close to his ear perhaps. It was only when Lux raised her head, her silver spoon frozen in the middle of its journey into her already occupied mouth, did Garen realize that the sound came from something far beyond reach of his ear; in fact, it was coming from outside his window. It grew steadily louder, the sound of a thousand blades slicing through air, and just as Garen was about to recognize the tune, his sister swallowed down her mouthful like a python.

"The _Summerbreeze_," she said quickly, even as she made for the open window in the hall, the pot plant to its side waving eccentrically in the unnatural wind, like the grasping claws of a green madman. "They must've come to bid farewell."

"They?" asked Garen as he joined his sister, gazing bemusedly at the patch of blue beyond his window.

"The yordles," she said, even as the keel of the ship filled most of what sky was visible through his window. It was made of red heartwood, as were most other airships, prized for their incredible durability and comparative weightlessness. Haphazardly-placed portholes and crystal turbines sunk out of view, as the ship's deck levelled with the windowsill, its gleaming silver sails thrumming with techmaturgy and waving majestically in the wind.

Garen was not unaccustomed to the sight of yordles, not when he had fought alongside them so many times in the League; and he knew that they were not be regarded as children, despite their diminutive stature. However, the group of yordles chattering excitedly and huddled together against the railing still appeared a quaint sight; and Garen was vaguely reminded of the hamsters which he had once kept his youth, which flooded towards the extreme of the cage whenever he arrived, their woffly noses twitching erratically through the bars as they caught scent of the sunflower seeds in his palm.

One of the yordles, a white-furred creature dressed from head to toe in blue and gold silk – and which was adorned with so many medals that Garen was amazed that the little creature was still standing under the weight – pushed his way aggressively to the front, leaping onto the wooden railings with blinding dexterity. He straightened the silver-bird feather in his fedora, which was left bent and ruffled throughout the jostling. He stared solemnly into Lux's eyes.

"Fat girl," the yordle declared.

Garen's eyes widened.

"A humourous nickname, coined after my inability to fit in their bunks," explained Lux, though there was little mirth in her pursed lips.

"The fat girl broke Pip's bed!" piped one of the yordles at the front, who wore nothing but a pair of coarse-blue jeans, his chest covered in a thick coat of the richest chocolate. "In two! I've 'ad to sleep on the floor 'cause of 'er!"

Garen grinned, and the yordle on the railing turned towards him, seemingly noticing him for the first time. The yordle bowed.

"Lord-Captain Smorckleweedeedles of the _Summerbreeze_ at your service. I presume that your grace is the fat girl's brother?"

"Aye. Garen, House Crownguard, pleasure to meet your grace," said Garen graciously, inclining his head. "I thank you for your services in ferrying my sister from Piltover back to Demacia, I hope that she has not been much trouble."

Smorckleweedeedles shook his head reverentially as he made irrelevant case with a furry paw. "The Light of Demacia snores very loudly, your grace, and even by human standards she eats a lot; but we managed."

"And where to now, Deedles? Back to Bandle City, or have you yet business in these parts?" Lux's tone was slightly sharper than usual, as though for want of reminder that she was still there.

"Neither is the case. We're off to the bazaar in Shurima; it's the trading season again, and camel-skin rugs are selling like hot cupcakes in Bandel City," said Smorckleweedeedles cheerfully, bouncing back and forth on the back of his heels. "Though they aren't used so much as rugs as they are for tailoring Wookiee costumes. It's Star Wars appreciation month again, to commemorate the day when the DVD Boxed-Set fell through the void into the city square two years ago."

Garen forced a half-hearted smile. Ever since Kassadin had taken up residence in the yordle city, his explorations to the other-worlds have often left little souvenirs and other ephemerals from the multi-planes. So far, the extraneous objects have mostly been harmless, though many worry that the rips in space may someday be sufficiently large enough to accommodate somewhat more menacing passengers. Garen felt a shiver run down his spine as he contemplated that there may be other beings like Cho'Gath (who was actually a gentleman on the occasions when Garen had met him), just lurking in the right place for the right time to slip through the void into a city of unsuspecting yordles.

He glanced at his sister, expecting her to bear the same expression; but was surprised to find her face bowed, the way she always does when she is deep in thought.

"Garen," she began slowly. "What think you?"

"Of what?"

She stared at him, deliberate. "They are going to Shurima."

Garen's eyes widened as what his sister was implying struck him like a hammerblow. "You can't be serious," he spluttered, shaking his head.

"Deadly," she whispered into his ear, a characteristic firmness to her voice; and Garen knew that she spoke the truth. "The last time you journeyed for one of the Gems you were interrupted by not one, but _two_ others, both of which are Champions of the League. Seven saints know what they want with these Gems, but I'll wager you a silver piece that they know more than we do, and that they will be there at the pyramid before us if we do not act now. There is no faster way in Valoran than by airship, and goodness knows even more so across the Ruined Sands. We _cannot_ let the Gem in the pyramid fall into their hands."

"But we have yet to discuss with the council, or Jarvan," Garen hissed back, flashing Smorckleweedeedles an awkward smile, who was staring at the exchange curiously. "And how would we return? You've always been reckless, sister, but…"

"- The process would take far too long, and goodness knows when the next airship will leave for Shurima. The raven has been sent to Ashe, and I'll leave a note in your quarters for Jarvan to find, if it would so please you. As for our return, I'm sure that there are airships at the bazaar; and if not, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now make your decision, before we tire the captain's patience; or worse, pique his curiosity."

Garen gritted his teeth. Once again he felt powerless, a puppet to a tide of events which cut his strings and threw him out into the waves. He liked the strings, his duty and his obligations gave him a sense of order in his life; but as of late he has crossed more and more lines which he would never have dreamt of crossing, and it frightens him, for he knew not where it would end, and where, perhaps, the madness would truly begin.

"Right," Garen addressed the captain, who, along with the rest of his crew, were staring at them in bemusement. "Do you think we could go along with you? I've always wanted to see the desert. It has… err… sand…"

"-We have always wanted to visit the Shurima Bazaar, where as we've heard hosts all manner of colourful traders, whose exotic wares and creatures hail from the Kumungu Jungle and even the darkest reaches of the Shadow Isles," said Lux easily; and despite his ire, Garen was begrudgingly impressed by his sister's swift tongue. "It would also be a fascinating experience, a break from the current peace and calm of Demacia, to behold the fabled floating pyramids of the Ruined Sands with our own eyes, which I am sure are even more magnificent in person."

"Yes," Garen agreed. "We will be in your debt if you could press us your services once again; we will pay you what is sufficient, and Lux promises not to break another of your beds."

Garen prides himself for not wincing when the Light of Demacia kicks him in the shins.

"We would be honoured to have such distinguished guests aboard the _Summerbreeze_," said Smorckleswideedle happily, all trace of his previous confusion gone. All the other yordles cheered their assent, save the chestnut one whose bed had been broken – who continued to eye them in suspicion. "The tales of your exploits in the League, whilst not as oft-quoted as your sister's; are every bit as inspiring. I would be a fool to let such glory slip past the decks of my ship, for what other sky-captain may claim that they've once played host to the Crownguard Champions, and one of them twice at that? Climb aboard! Though I should warn you that after our stop at Shurima, we shall depart for Bandle City; though it is most likely that there will be other airships which would return you to Demacia at a reasonable fee."

After that was settled, Lux scribbled a quick note onto a piece of parchment and left it on his dining table, whereupon the dirty dishes and half-finished food still lay. _Another delightful surprise,_ thought Garen grimly, _for his highness to discover in their absence._ They boarded the ship, with Garen mourning the loss of his armour, which would not fit through the window. He felt horribly naked with nothing against his chest but a cotton shirt, but at least he had his sword; and perhaps he could find some other relic in substitution at the bazaar.

Then, just as they were about to leave, with the captain at the steering-wheel, Pip at the control table and a yordle called Jaspey manning the chemical tubes; Lux let out a sharp cry for them to halt before rushing back through the window. It was an odd sensation, looking through the window into his quarters rather than the other way round; and the nausea which accompanied the realization made him thank the seven saints that he was not born a window-cleaner's son.

When Lux had re-appeared, she was dragging along the floor a large blue bag trimmed with golden silk. It appeared familiar, though Garen had no idea where the girl had obtained the thing, for it was literally larger than her entirety and there was nowhere she could've hidd-

"Is that my _blanket_?" he asked incredulously. "Have you any idea how dirty the carpet is? It has not been aired in weeks!"

"Oh do quit your whining," huffed the mage, as she unfurled the blanket and began throwing his pillows and bolsters onto the deck; which the yordles immediately began bouncing up and down upon. "I'm not making the same mistake again. This time we're sleeping on the deck, and your down and feather blanket should make an excellent mattress."

"It is a very expensive blanket," said Garen icily.

"I do hope it is, or we'll wake tomorrow to stiff backs. For once, your incredibly feminine tastes for luxury shall serve us of some use."

As the _Summerbreeze_ alighted from his tower, Garen swore to himself that – when his sister next left on business – he will find Lord Vessler, steal his sister's _camera_; and have his own little _photo-shoot_ on her bed.

**-TBC-**

* * *

**-TBC-**

Author's note: Remember to review if you liked the story, and if you'd like me to continue!


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